Miss Whitehead gave some of these lectures herself.
“The future is made by the children for whose characters and training you are responsible. Your contribution and examples are valuable,” was one of her favorite sayings.
The other thing that the institution believed in more than any other was telling the truth. (Telling a little white lie to avoid ruining the fun of Christmas by saying that Father Christmas doesn’t really exist didn’t count.)
We were taught the value of the tremendous force of absolute truthfulness.
“When your charges ask you where babies come from,” Miss Whitehead was fond of intoning, “they do not appear under gooseberry bushes, neither are they parachuted in by an obliging stork. They come from mummy’s tummy.”
I made sure to maintain this rule throughout my working life and I was always honest with my charges. In fact, in every area of my life I have been most careful to never tell a lie. It’s something that I feel most strongly about. Dishonesty is such a rotten thing, to my mind. Little white lies about tooth fairies don’t count, I hasten to add. Why can’t everyone be more careful to tell the truth? At least we would all know where we stand in life.
I hate the thought that I am not being true to what I believe. How awful to be known as someone who says one thing and does another.
We were also taught children’s nursery rhymes, stories, and prayers. I love nursery rhymes, so for me this didn’t even feel like work.
The lecturers observed us as we recited poems and stories in front of class. I hated this part and always wished the ground would swallow me up. To help me, I’d close my eyes, think of David, and suddenly I’d be back at Hallcroft.
I could almost smell the sweet musky scent of his head as a baby, feel his little fingers curling round mine. I missed him fiercely.
Miss Danvers also took us for another element of domestic science: what to do with little children when they are ill.
Today we have Band-Aids, Tylenol, and no end of over-the-counter medications we can reach for when little heads are hurting or knees are bleeding; but back then we had to be a little more resourceful.
The cupboards were groaning with items we had to learn how to use.
Olive oil had a multitude of uses. Rubbed into the scalp it was a cure for dandruff, or warmed and massaged into a baby’s back and chest it was comforting and helped to fend off colds.
I learned that an ounce of warm water will quiet a fretful baby and cure wind.
A handy recipe for diarrhea? Take a cup of milk and two glasses of port wine, heat milk and add wine, bring to boiling point, stand till curd breaks, strain, and give a lukewarm tablespoonful to the affected child.
A bath with baking soda in it has a soothing effect on heat spots. Eucalyptus oil can be dropped in hot water and inhaled for colds, and carron oil makes an excellent dressing for burns.
There was bottle after bottle in Miss Danvers’s cupboards, all with some medicinal purpose. Brandy, dill water, borax, glycerin, ginger, camphorated oil, Dr. Bow’s liniment, castor oil, Gregory’s Mixture, and peppermint oil. Miss Danvers elucidated in precise steps what purpose each could serve.
At this point you might be wondering where on earth all the children were. Just whose nappies were we washing and whose prams were we cleaning so diligently?
Norland did have resident children. Number 11 Pembridge Square was converted into several nursery rooms, christened Spring, Dawn, Bluebell, Daisy, and Forget-me-not. A quiet back garden led into Kensington Gardens.
The children who lived here were usually the offspring of civil service families posted abroad who didn’t want to take their children with them for fear of illness or danger. The institute also cared for children whose mothers died in childbirth and illegitimate children. It offered a continuous child care service at least until the age of seven, when the children were sent to boarding school. Their day-to-day care was in the hands of the trainees in their third term, not first termers like me.
It was agony for a young girl who was itching to care for children. Mastering an iron was all well and good, but when would we ever get to the real thing?
But rules were rules. First term was to learn moral qualities, housewifery, and domestic science; second term was training in hospital; and third term we would finally get to train alongside the children.
I saw them outside playing or being strolled out to Kensington Gardens. Occasionally their sunny laughter drifted up to the lecture rooms from the gardens. Joan loved children as much as I did and sighed when their excited chatter carried through the walls. It was torture to know children were so close and yet not be able to care for them.
I suppose in some ways this may have been an unusual childhood for these children. They were left in the care of strangers who used them as a sort of training ground; but they always seemed so happy and well cared for that no one thought it out of the ordinary.
They were taken for walks in the park; to dance classes; on trips to the zoo, the circus, and shows; to tea with friends; and on day trips to the seaside.
Smacking was strictly forbidden by the nursery, something I wholeheartedly agree with; and I, too, adopted a no-smacking rule when I was working. Smacking doesn’t teach a child a lesson; it just says that you have lost control of the situation and that violence is an acceptable response. I find a lot of people are just venting their own personal frustration and anger on a child and in fact are just doing it to make themselves feel better. This is entirely wrong and teaches anger, not discipline or respect.
In those days, punishment was being made to stand in the corner or the withdrawal of jam for tea.
To my delight, I realized that I was really learning a lot during my time at Pembridge Square, and though I never even dared dream it, I hoped my efforts were impressing Miss Whitehead.
As we approached the end of our first period of three-month training, Mary and I were summoned to Miss Whitehead’s office.
Oh, crumbs. I wondered what I’d done this time. But once inside the same office where I’d had my interview, I realized Miss Whitehead was actually smiling. At me!
“Well done, girls,” she said. “I have been observing you both and it has become clear that you have excelled at your training and both have leadership potential.”
I felt Mary swell with pride next to me.
“For devotion to duty and ability I am making you head girl, Mary, and you are her second-in-command, Brenda. That is how you shall both be known henceforth. That is all. You may go back to your training now.”
I left Miss Whitehead’s office, feeling ten feet tall. We had done something to make Miss Whitehead pleased. My joy was only matched when I was handed my black testimonial book: good, very good, or excellent in all my subjects.
I floated on air for the rest of the day. All was well in the world.
Or so I thought.
Little did we know it, but our comfortable, well-ordered world was already in peril.…
Nanny’s Wisdom
GIVE PRAISE WHERE PRAISE IS DUE!
How wonderful it is to be praised for a job well done. I still remember the pride I felt in being made deputy head girl by Miss Whitehead for my devotion to duty and my ability. It’s the little things that count; and a kind word of encouragement in a child’s ear can last for a lifetime and go a long way to making a confident and secure adult. That praise, when accompanied by a kiss, a hug, or even just a pat on the back, will be felt a million times more deeply.
That said, I do hear some parents going overboard and cheering their children for things they are supposed to be doing anyway. I do think you can take it too far at times. But if your child has worked hard at her homework, demonstrated a spectacular handstand, or just drawn a lovely picture, then tell her so! Good deeds and hard work deserve your praise. The next time she comes to tackle a difficult task, it will feel all the more bearable. Hard work pays off—even if you are doing something you don’t want to be doing (like laundry or making the
bed).
ENJOY YOUR FREEDOM FROM THE DREADED LAUNDRY ROOM.
You don’t have to sweat away in a hot laundry room like I had to. Nowadays there are no end of products on the market to remove stains; and you have washing machines and tumble driers that at the flick of a button can save you hours of work. I still find some of the traditional remedies are the best, though!
Try this for removing mud and grease stains from white fabric: boil the article of clothing in a large saucepan with a chopped-up lemon. The lemon and high temperature bleaches the stain, then wash as normal in a washing machine.
CHAPTER 4
CARING FOR SICK CHILDREN
GREAT ORMOND STREET HOSPITAL
LONDON, ENGLAND
[1939, AGE EIGHTEEN]
Cry, Baby Bunting,
Daddy’s gone a-hunting,
Gone to fetch a rabbit skin
To wrap the baby bunting in.
Cry, Baby Bunting.
—ENGLISH LULLABY
Schedule
6:30 AM: Woke in my dormitory, washed, and changed into my Norland uniform.
7:00 AM: Had breakfast of porridge in the nurses’ canteen, where only nurses were allowed. Sisters and doctors always ate in separate quarters.
8:00 AM: Reported on the ward for duty and received our orders from the ward sister.
8:15 AM: Made bottles and feeds in the milk kitchen. Each child had a different formula. This was before the days of dried formula milk. Back then, it was cow’s milk with added lactose, glucose, and water. It was terribly complicated. I am no mathematician, so I always got in a frightful muddle mixing it all up.
9:30 AM: Took the children to the nappy room and changed their nappies, then washed and dressed the children.
10:00 AM: Fed the cleft palate babies their milk.
11:00 AM: Cleaned the nurseries and wards—and I mean cleaned everything, from toilets to bedpans.
11:30 AM: Took the children’s temperatures. Younger children’s were taken in the groin and older children’s in the armpit.
11:30 AM: Wheeled the younger children out onto the balcony in their cots for fresh air.
12:00 PM: Lunch.
2:00 PM TO 3:00 PM: All children encouraged to have a rest or a sleep, while we caught up with administration.
3:00 PM TO 4:30 PM: Parents visited—always a happy time filled with laughter.
4:30 PM: Tea of jam sandwiches and milk for older children and milk for the babies. Fed cleft palate babies their milk.
5:30 PM: Cleaned wards, washed bottles, changed bedpans, cleaned sluice.
6:00 PM: Read stories to the children.
6:30 PM: Off duty.
AS HITLER MOBILIZED HIS TROOPS I merrily moved on to the second phase of my training in a state of blissful ignorance as to the horrors that lay ahead.
Second term was to be spent training in a London hospital.
Emily Ward had had to work hard to get the matrons of London hospitals to accept Norlanders. The matrons, quite rightly, were less than keen to let a load of young, untrained girls loose onto their rigidly controlled wards. Emily persisted, staunch in her belief that every Norlander should gain an insight into the life and struggles of the poor and sick. She typified the spirit of Victorian philanthropy that maintained the rich had a duty to help the poor and suffering.
By 1939, thanks to the support of Sir Robert Hutchison, an eminent pediatrician, there were a number of London hospitals willing to take Norland students.
We were acutely aware of the need to be on our best behavior, particularly when Miss Whitehead sat us down in the drafty lecture room before we left.
“Although you are trained to care for healthy children, some insight into the principles of sick nursing is of great value to those in charge of nurseries,” she said. “This is a timely opportunity to remind ourselves of the traditions of the Norland. As well as maintaining high ideals and Christian beliefs, we are here to serve. While at hospital you must forget yourselves. You are merely a pair of hands for service, to minister to the suffering children and make them as happy and comfortable as you can. You will learn that your lives during your career will be full of self-sacrifice, for the needs of your charges will call forth all your love, devotion, intelligence, and watchful care. Remember our motto: ‘Love never faileth.’ ”
As I sat in the taxi en route, the real reason my body was drumming with anticipation was because finally, finally, I could get to look after my beloved babies and children. Don’t get me wrong, I loved needlework and nursery rhymes, but caring for children was the reason I had joined the Norland, after all.
Pulling up outside the hospital, dressed in my freshly pressed Norland uniform and cape, I paid my fare, then stopped to take in my new home. The magnificent red brick building soared into the sky, among a jumble of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century terraced homes.
On that day the majestic building looked like a grand old dame, with the cluster of little houses, her charges, sitting at her feet.
Goodness gracious, didn’t I feel humble to be standing here.
Staring up at the imposing edifice, I felt honored.
Hadn’t I already come a long way from my village? I was more determined than ever to make Mother proud.
I and another three Norlanders who were also training at the hospital were instructed to report to the matron’s office.
Finally, we would be assigned some babies. After a rundown on hospital etiquette from matron we were given a tour of the wards.
The sight of all those sick children reduced me to mush. Rows and rows of cast-iron beds with sad little faces peeking out from under white starched sheets.
The children made for a pitiful sight, and something inside my soul stirred when I saw them. Some suffered from rickets, their legs so bowed they could scarcely walk; others, suffering from dyspraxia, were strapped to a bed with both legs in plaster. The children on the wards were being treated for everything from lupus to rheumatism.
Some were so ill and listless they could barely lift their heads from the pillows. Most of the poor scraps didn’t even open their eyes much, but those who did wore little smiles that broke my heart.
Unwell children, unlike adults, do not feel sorry for themselves.
How could these beautiful and brave little children battling every day not affect me?
Walking through the wards was a humbling experience that left me breathless with admiration. Too many adults, busy in their everyday world, sever links with childhood. These children reminded me what it is to be human: to never lose touch with what is important.
Each time I am feeling anxiety in my life I think of the little children at Great Ormond Street, smiling through their sickness. They don’t know the meaning of stress, just a daily fight with pain. Their battle is nothing short of courageous.
Charles Dickens summed it up well when he wrote, “A sick child is a contradiction of ideas, like a cold summer. But to quench the summer in a child’s heart is, thank God! not easy.”
And you couldn’t quench the sense of mischief in some of the children either.…
Great Ormond Street, like the Norland, was a great believer in the restorative power of fresh air, and patients were wheeled out every day to get their dose.
The year before I started, the new Southwood Building, complete with balconies, had just opened. Children who were in the recovery stage were wheeled out in their wrought-iron cots onto their balcony. Can you imagine the sight of all these rows of children in their cots staring down from on high?
Apparently, neighbors complained bitterly about the noise, but the fresh air breaks were deemed too important to be sacrificed. They also gave children who hated their uninspired lunch of watery mince and tapioca the chance to sneak it outside under their sheets and hurl it off the side of the balcony. There were great shrieks of laughter when some tapioca landed with a splat on the glass roof of a balcony below.
Did I scold them? Not at all. It was hard enough for the poor lit
tle poppets being cooped up inside. What good would a dressing-down do for their recuperation? Besides, harmless mischief was a good sign. A child who has the energy for fun is a healthy child.
Senior nursing staff always scolded them but I said nothing, just gave them a little smile.
“I rather think you must be feeling better,” I told one little boy after I caught him dribbling his dose of cod-liver oil through the balcony railings onto a doctor’s head below.
The children’s laughter was always music to my ears, and some of my happiest times came from seeing the delight on their little faces when we served up jam sandwiches for tea.
But happy times were far and few between during my three months at Great Ormond Street. At the time I felt lost in a bewildering, frightening world where etiquette and rank seemed to supersede basic human care.
Forgetting to put on your cuffs while addressing the ward sister or knocking unannounced on the matron’s door seemed more important than how you spoke to a sick child.
It is really only now, at age ninety-two, that I see everything in life happens for a purpose and that in many ways, what I saw and experienced on the wards back then informed my opinions to such an extent that it changed me as a caregiver and as a person.
Back then the doctors’, matrons’, and ward sisters’ words were the law. While they may have been world-class in their diagnosis, treatment, and medical care—not to mention exacting in their standards of cleanliness, hygiene, and ward discipline—they were a little short on basic love, affection, and touch.
From day one I was told “not to befriend” the children or give them “cuddles.” It was utterly bewildering and, for a naturally tactile person like me, heartbreaking. When you see a sick little child crying, instinct tells you to cuddle him, doesn’t it? In Great Ormond Street this was forbidden. I learned the hard way.
The first time the doctor, who in many ways was regarded as a god, swept through the ward, I was astonished at the reaction. It was like the parting of the Red Sea. People scattered and the ward went deadly quiet.
A Spoonful of Sugar Page 7
